


Bucky Snaps

by romanrogers



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Character Death, Dark, Dubcon Kissing, Dubious Morality, Ginger Snaps AU, Horror, M/M, Mild Gore, Mildly Dubious Consent, Morally Ambiguous Character, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Unreliable Narrator, Violence, Werewolf Bucky Barnes, Werewolves, dark bucky barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-07-25 10:56:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7529953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanrogers/pseuds/romanrogers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky's spine rippled underneath his skin, elongating, with an orchestra of cracking bones singing in the dim light, acting as Steve's only anchor to reality. He watches in paralytic horror as Bucky groans and pounds his fist on the floor again, shattering the blood slick tile.</p><p>The faint, flickering lights overhead cast long shadows across the room, making everything that much more eerie. Steve's legs were numb with shock, not responding to his attempts to move.</p><p>From his place on the floor, Steve could see Bucky's sharp, lengthened canines glinting with every pained curl of his upper lip. Foreboding, an unintentional warning. An innate, primal instinct from within him screamed to run. Make yourself small and run. The guy in front of you is a predator.</p><p>Steve never was one to walk away from something that was in his best interest. Even though he most definitely should.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. putting the dog to sleep

**Author's Note:**

> A special thanks to the two artists who both illustrated beautiful pictures for this story [Jessie](http://lucidnancyboy.tumblr.com) and [Araniaart](http://araniaart.tumblr.com), and also to [bruisinlikeapeach](http://bruisinlikeapeach.tumblr.com) for being my beta writer for a brief period in time! :)

 

Last period is always the worst. Steve is stuck folding towels and laundry loads for the track team while the other teens run about on the field. Bucky stops by the laundry room when he can, telling the teachers that he is getting a drink of water, but instead helps Steve fold the piles of clothes set in front of him no matter how much Steve argues.

Every time though, he reluctantly agrees even as it chafes at his pride, then proceeds to complain to Bucky about how just because he has asthma, it doesn’t mean he can’t participate in gym. Bucky always smiles good naturedly, reminding Steve that the sooner he quits bellyaching, the quicker he can draw in his sketchbook on the bleachers until the last bell. He waves Bucky off, telling him to get his butt back to class as he kicks at the other boy’s shins from beneath the table.

He soon finishes not long after Bucky leaves, and draws his jacket closer to his small frame to shield himself from the cold as he walks outside. Steve shivers regardless and curses himself for not taking Bucky’s advice earlier and just taking the extra jacket. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he ducks his head to block the bitter slap of icy winds hitting against his face.

From a distance the bell from the main building rings, filling the air with a shrill sound. Steve lets out a breath, watching as it clouds up around his face and then fades away as he walks through it, moving sluggishly up into the air to join the other clouds of breath from the stream of students moving along the pavement to get to their intended locations.

He shoulders his way past the spattering of people crowding the doorway, making his way towards Bucky’s locker. Distantly, he can hear the discordant cadences of laughter from different groups chatting on the sidelines of the hallway traffic and briefly considers turning his hearing aid off but waves the thought away. He is just being cranky.

He is several paces away from the locker when he hears the snide voice of Brock Rumlow heckling a small, frightened looking girl. Steve’s eyes harden and righteous anger flares in his chest.

Steve reaches up and roughly grabs the shoulder of the other teen, “I think she wants you to leave her be.”

The girl shoots Steve a thankful glance before scuttling off while Rumlow’s attention is directed on Steve.

Rumlow grabs him by the top of his shirt, dragging him close, “Oh yeah? And what’s it to ya’?

Steve stares head on into the weaselly face of Brock Rumlow with a look that could send even the mightiest of beings crumbling from beneath the weight of his gaze, “You shouldn’t talk to people that way, show some respect,” He spits.

“She obviously didn’t want nothing to do with you,” Steve continues as he is drawn in nearer.

“And what are you gonna do about it, pipsqueak,” Rumlow rumbles back.

Steve opens his mouth to reply when Rumlow is roughly pulled back by the collar of his shirt, effectively removing his hands from Steve’s front. “How bout’ you pick on someone your own size,” Bucky suggests in a slow drawl.

Rumlow scoffs, rolling his eyes dismissively, shoving Bucky’s chest to make room for him to join the dwindling crowd in the hall.

“I had him on the ropes,” Steve says as the other boy stalks away heatedly.

Bucky smirks, “Sure ya’ did Rogers-“

“Don’t patronize me, jerk.”

“I aint doing nothing of the sort.”

Bucky slings an arm casually around Steve’s shoulders, pulling him into the curve of Bucky’s side as they walk down the mostly empty hallway, save for the few who lingered. They continue on back and forth spouting barbed words with gentle, friendly connotations behind them with a mutual familiarity.

Steve smiles mischievously, bumping Bucky with his elbow, “Say, what do you think about teaching Brock a lesson?”

Bucky opens the exit door for Steve and sighs, “What do you mean, wasn’t that what you were doing earlier?”

“Well yeah but it’s not like he actually learned anything.”

“Gee what are they teaching you in Ethics class, huh?” Bucky asks with a forced laugh, trying to steer away from the topic.

“So I was thinkin’-“

“Steve, no.” Bucky says resolutely.

Steve pouts and pulls away, folding his arms across his chest, “I’ll do it with or without you, no matter what you say.”

Bucky groans to himself, “Jesus Christ.”

Steve grins, “I’ll take that as a yes?”

“Punk,” Bucky grouches, ruffling Steve’s hair.

 

-

 

The two venture out into the streets as the last few moments of twilight ebb in the sky. The dark swallows the two boys in a cold vice, with nothing but the moon to light their way. Steve drags Bucky to the outskirts of town where Rumlow’s home sits and behind a small spatter of pristine houses with white picket fences and a still forest that they currently stand between.

“Hey did you hear about the animal attacks around town lately?”

“Oh shush, I can hear ya’ worrying from here, Buck,” Steve grouches, waving the bag of fake blood and sausage links in his hands. “And that’s why the plan’s so good- nab the pooch and make it look like that beast thing got it.”

As an afterthought he adds, “Plus we get a dog, we always talked about gettin’ a dog.”

“I just don’t know about this, I gotta bad feeling, Steve.” Bucky replies warily shuffling his feet.

Steve rolls his eyes, “Be useful ya’ knucklehead, heft me up over the fence here.”

Bucky reluctantly complies, crouching down and lacing his fingers together. Steve steps up onto them and places his hands flat against the fence for balance as he rises. He peeks up over the edge and inhales sharply, but then abruptly gags as the rotten scent.

Blood is spread out along the grass, coating it like a thinly veiled blanket and the hide of the dog is in shreds, lying in several different mangled, chunky clumps near a torn apart carcass.

The shredded corpse lies like a serene centerpiece to an eighteenth century gothic painting- It’s almost morbidly beautiful, the small artistic part of Steve thinks, but the larger part is revolted.

Steve wills himself to swallow the bile rising in his throat as he quickly signals Bucky to lower him down. Nausea grips at his stomach, refusing to leave. He grabs at Bucky in shock, “We got to go-,“ he cuts himself off.

A twig behind them snaps and both Steve and Bucky looks toward the forest with twin expressions of a deer caught in the headlights. Leaves begin to shuffle in the breeze as the air howls around them.

“I’m sure it’s just the wind,” Bucky says.

Moments later, a large hulking mass darts out from the bushes and Bucky is ripped from Steve’s grasp with an audible tear of skin. A guttural, ear-shattering scream erupts from Bucky’s chest as he is dragged away and Steve is sent into a momentary stilled shock. He drops the bag in his hands.

“Bucky!” He exclaims, running after the sound.

Steve can barely hear anything over the sound of blood roaring in his ears and his own hard, labored breathing but he pushes himself blindly forward deeper and deeper into the woods trailing after Bucky’s strangled cry. Steve pants turning his head in all directions as Bucky’s agonized screams echo off of the trees in an endless cluster of repeated syllables.

His foot catches on a stray branch, tripping up his feet, causing him to fall face first onto the ground. Leaves fly up around him and flutter down gracelessly while the sound of crunching twigs comes racing closer. Steve grapples at the ground as another long, gargled groan is unleashed and stumbles to his feet to continue his search.

“Bucky, where are you?” He yells frantically.

Bucky’s dirty torso crashes into Steve’s and sends him reeling back as Bucky tightly grips his arms, and repeats the same broken plea like a scratched record, “Steve- Steve, help me, help me, help me-“

He is cut off by a low growl from behind them and Steve quickly laces their sticky hands together to run, when the boys are tackled to the ground. Bucky’s body acts as a shield for Steve, keeping the animal from making any contact and effectively knocks the air out from Steve’s lungs.

Bucky is dragged back by the rounded edge of his shoulder with a wet squelching sound. He yells out again in pain and Steve is beginning to become lightheaded from fear. With only the faint glimmer of the full moon present, Steve could not make out much but it was all the light that he needed to see what took place before him.

A giant wolf looms over Bucky’s crippled form as he beats at it with trembling limbs. One blow is hard enough to send it flying off of him and Steve immediately crawls toward Bucky, to pull him up. Steve sprints as fast as his short limbs can carry him, dragging an almost delirious Bucky behind him.

“Fuck, Bucky!” He cries as they break through the trees.

They continue to run, not daring to look back because they know what they’ll find following if they do. As they cross the first half of the road, the front headlights of a van begin speeding towards the two and Steve musters up an animalistic, adrenaline-induced strength inside of himself to push them the rest of the way across the street.

His legs finally give out and he falls to the ground, taking Bucky with him, panting wildly when his knees hit the ground.

“Get up!” Bucky wails, “Come on, get up! We have to keep-”

The car speeding down the road makes a large thump sound as it comes in contact with the wolf, but Steve and Bucky are too shaken to even check to see if it is alive. They race away just as quickly as they came, leaving a very confused driver on the road.

He gets out of the car, rubbing the back of his head in shock, “What the _fuck_?”

 

-

 

The front door is flung open as Bucky is ushered inside leaning haggardly on the wall, knocking down wall frames and post it notes along the way. Almost nothing can be heard over the sound of his pained whimpers and Steve’s harsh breathing.

“Shit, Bucky,” he exhales shakily, leading him to the bed to lie down.

He looks at Bucky’s mangled left arm with a barely upheld faux calm, “I need to look at it, okay-“

“Please no, please don’t-“ His voice breaks off, grabbing at Steve’s hands to keep them from touching. “It hurts, it burns, it burns so goddamn much, please don’t!”

“I have to look,” Steve says firmly, yanking his fingers from Bucky’s steely grip to unzip his jacket.

“What the fuck was that thing?” Bucky wheezes.

Steve swallows thickly, “I think it was a wolf.”

“There’s no wolves anywhere fucking _near_ here,” he gasps out.

Steve slowly peels it from Bucky’s trembling form as gently as he can, and strips off his shirt. He pulls it over both of their heads and tosses it aside, inhaling deeply with a jolt.

He crouches down lower to gain a better look, “That’s not possible,” he whispers.

Steve looks up at Bucky, voice quivering, “Buck, It’s healing.”

Steve ghosts his fingers across the pink fleshy scab covering almost the whole left side of his best friend underneath the blood and dirt that coated his skin. A slow rising pressure of hysteria begins to rise in his throat.

“Steve, I’m o- okay,” Bucky sobers quickly, “Steve It’s fine, it doesn’t hurt so much anymore.”

“That’s not possible,” he repeats. He pulls Bucky close, holding back tears, “I thought you were gonna die.”

Bucky sits up and looks at Steve, bringing his arms up gently around him in a desperate embrace, pushing Steve’s brow into his collarbone.

“I’m okay.”

“You’re okay?”

“I’m okay.”

Steve exhales shakily, holding Bucky tight against him, he’s okay, he’s okay, _he’s okay_.

 

-

 

Something is wrong.

Steve observes silently from the distance as Bucky twitches again for at least the tenth time in the last hour. He watches as Bucky’s shoulders shake ever so slightly with every breath and his stature is a far cry from how he usually holds himself. His hair is low hanging in his face unlike his usual wind swept appearance, and he sits straighter, more alert. Vigilant.

He’s been like this ever since they woke up this morning. And Steve tries to be rational. The key word there is tries. The bell rings, signaling the end of class and Steve grabs his books, attention still fixated on the other teen.

“I’m telling ya’ Buck, something isn't right,” Steve says later on, after a long sip of apple juice. “You don’t just get mauled like that and come out without a mark!”

Bucky scoffs under his breath as he picks halfheartedly at his lunch, “Well what do you want me to say, Steve? Would you rather I still be bleeding?”

“I want you to be concerned!” He exclaims. “I know I’m not imagining it, there was blood still on your clothes-“

“Can you just drop it,” Bucky finally snaps. “I’m fine, end of story.”

Steve recoils, taken aback and deflates slightly, the edges of his lips pulling down into a frown. He quickly recovers, puffing up his chest angrily.

He glares at nothing in particular, picking up his lunch and dumps it in the garbage can next to their table. Steve stands up, pointedly ignoring Bucky, and pushes his way past him, hitting his bad shoulder purposefully.

A white-hot rage simmers beneath the surface of Steve’s stony composure, sparking like electricity in the air. He does not talk to Bucky for the rest of the day. Doesn’t look, doesn’t touch, or walk next to, and especially doesn’t take note of the agitated set of Bucky’s jaw at every show of dismissal.

Later, Bucky catches his bicep in a firm grip, hard enough to keep Steve from yanking away. Steve’s anger flares and his face heats.

“I’m sorry.”

Steve looks at the hand on his arm with a steely resolve, “Okay.”

“You forgive me?” Bucky asks.

Steve doesn’t answer, echoes of anger still present. He simply yanks Bucky along to their home as they always do.

He pretends not to notice when he hears Bucky’s breathing late at night when he’s presumed to be asleep or the shadow he casts over Steve’s bedside from the light of his lamp. Maybe he’s just imagining it.

 

-

 

The next day, Steve sketches on a torn piece of loose leaf paper, all harsh lines and snarling teeth captured with charcoal. When he’s finished, he examines the picture with determined eyes.

The whole page was littered with doodles of dark beasts and things of nightmares but none of them quite captured the atrocious brutality of what Steve had seen. He wracks his brain for what it is missing, closing his eyes with a sigh.

Steve watches from afar on the first row of bleachers as Bucky participates in gym. He plays with more vigor today than some professionals do, tackling and hurdling- Steve almost wants to allow himself to believe everything is fine for one moment but Bucky hates gym. He only ever does enough activity to keep physically fit and never plays with such enthusiasm.

A shadow falls over Steve as he continues to watch the class of kids pass the ball around the field. He turns his head to look and sighs.

“I know you did it, Rogers,” he says lowly.

“Did what?” Steve mumbles.

He’s hauled up by the front of his shirt and his feet hang off the ground slightly, as Rumlow begins to drag him out of his seat and his paper floats to the floor.

“My fucking dog, don’t play dumb,” he spat.

Steve’s heart sunk, that dog. The bloody image flashes in Steve’s head again and he was almost tempted to confess just to be able to tell someone, but resists the urge with ease.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, buddy-“ he begins smoothly, but cuts off as a harsh blow is angled towards him. Dull pain explodes in patches along the uneven lines of his face and the icy feeling of surprise and adrenaline washes over him in a stinging shockwave. He winces, feeling the beginnings of blood begin to stream out of his nose.

“ _Liar_ ,” he sneers."You sick fuck, I know you like to do weird art shit and that this is some kind of shitty prank, so come on. Where'd you take my dog?"

They are on the ground now and Rumlow drags him up higher, cutting off his air supply for a moment. He continues prattling on incessantly and Steve returns the favor in kind, delivering smooth lies with a practiced grace that could only come from years of experience. He’s about to take a swing, when a large blur slams into Rumlow sending both him, and Steve, crashing to the ground.

Steve blinks erratically almost not believing the sight before him- Bucky sits on Rumlow’s chest, pinning down his arms with his knees, and slams his fists into Rumlow’s face with a vicious, almost perfunctory, precision.

Steve watches from the sidelines in a winded haze, coming to himself long enough to attempt to drag Bucky off of Rumlow, but is knocked away with the slightest shift of Bucky’s shoulder. Steve is not so easily deterred.

He grabs Bucky again with more force and persistence than before just as several teachers come shouting, “Break it up boys!”

Rumlow’s face is a mess of blood and odd angles, eyes already swelling from the force of Bucky’s punches. Bucky leans back on his haunches, breathing heavily.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve hisses to Bucky, “He’s knocked clean out!”

“All three of you, principle’s office now!”

Steve doesn’t notice that he left his drawing crumpled and torn on the ground. Or the tall boy that grips the picture with sweaty palms, watching him as he leaves.

 

-

 

“I just want to make sure you’re alright!” Steve yells, face heating up.

Bucky throws the bowl he’s washing in the sink so hard that it shatters but neither of them care enough to notice.

“How many times do I have to tell you that I am fine?” Bucky shouts back with just as much force behind his words.

“You practically beat a guy to a pulp! Something obviously is not right with you, Buck,” Steve stresses but Bucky continues on his tangent, ignoring Steve.

“I’m getting into fights at school, so what?” He growls. “That just means I have hormones and they're making me act all wonky, there, end of story-“

Steve scoffs, throwing his head back and then looking back to Bucky, “So you got bit by a giant hormone,” he deadpans. “Getting into fights and assaulting someone are two very different things, Rumlow practically shook when you looked at him next!”

“Well It’s not by what you think, Steve,” Bucky walks over getting into his personal space, “Did I change last night? Howl at the moon, kill shit and turn back?” Steve opens his mouth to retort but Bucky still prattles on, “-No, did it take a fucking silver bullet to stop that thing? No, it got killed by a truck. Besides, you should be glad, he won’t give you any trouble now. ”

Anger flares inside of Steve again, “Stop doing that,” he seethes.

“Doing what? Thinking logically,” Bucky spat.

“Brushing me off, talking down to me, treating me like I’m a damn child!”

“I’ll stop treating you like one when you stop acting like one and I no longer have to take care of your sorry butt,” Bucky snarls back.

That stings, and Bucky knew it too. Steve spins around on his heels and walks to his small cot on the other end of their one room apartment, lying down and shifts to the side to switch his flickering lamp off.

“I think I’m just gonna hit the hay,” he mutters.

“Steve-“ Bucky starts.

“Night, Buck.”

Bucky plops down on the edge of Steve’s bed with a defeated sigh, turning him around so that Steve faces him.

More gently this time he says, “I know you’re a stubborn ass and that this basically goes against your whole personality, but trust me on this, okay?” Bucky’s hand slides up to Steve’s neck and strokes it slightly with the pad of his thumb, “Everything’s alright. Really.”

Steve looks down cautiously to the hand on his neck and back to Bucky, skeptically. He allows himself to be brought up for a hug but doesn’t move his arms. Bucky nuzzles his head into the crook of Steve’s neck, and Steve in turn tilts his to stare at the faded bite mark peeking out from the collar of Bucky’s shirt. It’s almost as though the blemish is silently mocking him.

Steve hates it.

 

-

 

At home they’re running out of silverware that isn’t bent from Bucky’s grasp and plates that aren’t broken. Steve grimly makes a note in his head to stick to paper plates and plastic cutlery for the time being. They can’t afford to buy more of the fancy stuff at this rate and keep the hot water running.

 

-

 

“Hey, you!”  
  
Steve furrows his brow, pointedly ignoring the boy calling out to him from behind.

“On your left,” he says, walking faster to fall in step beside Steve, “Care for a smoke?”

“I got asthma,” Steve mumbles, hunching his shoulders.

“Well I just spent the past week lookin’ for ya’, so if you could give me a second to actually talk-“

Steve turns around, “What?” He asks flatly.

He hands Steve the torn drawing pointing to the center, looking around from side to side shiftily, “You were there.”

Steve’s head shoots up sharply, quickly ripping the paper from the other boy’s grasp.

“I ran over this- this thing,” he says again pointing to it again hard enough to crinkle the paper, “And it was chasing you and some other guy, but you were there.”

Steve lowers his voice to a murmur, “I was starting to think I just imagined it.”

The other boy lets out a small, hysterical chuckle, “You and me both, brother. Say what’s your name?”

Steve holds out his other hand and smiles slightly, “Steve, and you?”

“Sam,” he grins.

Rabid joy claws it’s way up in Steve’s throat, finally someone to talk to, “So you run over this thing-,“ Steve starts. “Huge, furry, could have been a bunch of things, but here I am thinking werewolves-”

“You saw what I saw, now tell me honestly am I going fucking crazy,” he asks Sam.

“No you’re-,” Sam starts to say but cuts off to look at his watch. “Shit, I gotta go but after school tomorrow, meet me at the community college’s greenhouse down the road. You know the one?”

Steve nods in agreement and turns around to leave but runs into someone’s chest. He looks up, slightly annoyed, until he sees Bucky. Then he gets anxious.

A nasty glare is angled towards Sam and the silent tension was practically palpable. Bucky almost seemed to have grown taller in that moment, his posture was arrow straight and his broad shoulders heaved with dark, rolling emotion in his every breath. Steve has never seen such a hateful stare in all his days from anyone, let alone Bucky, and comes to the quick conclusion that he shouldn’t trust him to be around other people.

“Who’s this,” he asks coolly, keeping his dark gaze firmly planted on Sam.

“Nobody important.” Steve tells him, pulling on his arm, “Come on Buck, the bell’s about to ring.”

 

-

 

The days pass like molasses, dragging on at an almost snail-like pace. Time just can’t go fast enough for Steve- it just stretches on continuously into the future, grating on his raw nerves reminiscent to the feeling sandpaper. Bucky’s eyes are like hot brands on Steve’s back. He can feel a heated flush begin to emanate from deep in his chest, rising up the nape of his neck, but whether it is from anxiousness or instinctual fear, Steve did not know. A bead of sweat formed behind his ear and, in distinct detail, sense Bucky’s eyes track the movement as the drop slowly slid down the side of his throat and disappeared into the hood of his jacket.

Steve swallows and fiddles with the frayed ends of his old sweatshirt, trying to distract himself from the tension that built in his chest. Bucky knows that Steve is hiding something. If the sharp glint in his eye and the slight furrow of his brow is anything to go by, he at least knows that Steve was lying about where he goes while Bucky sits in detention for the past week.

He walks on the tips of his toes around Bucky nowadays, his temper easily sparked and a dangerous air of warning surrounding his every movement. His hair falls in choppy, tangled waves now, crowning his face and giving him an almost sickly appearance.

He almost doesn’t even really look like Bucky anymore.

The bell rings, signaling the end of the school day and Steve jumps to his feet, books already packed. He turns to Bucky, waiting for him to trail over towards Steve’s desk.

He gently touches Bucky’s forearm, scrutinizing his reaction, “I’m gonna’ swing by the art store, I’ll be home by the time detention’s over with. That alright?”

Bucky leans into the touch, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a soft half-smile to reveal a single sharp, elongated canine.

Steve plasters an artificial grin to his face as well, one with far too many teeth and that doesn’t quite reach his worried eyes. He looks down, patting Bucky’s back and turns to leave.

 

-

 

Steve hops out of Sam’s van, waving goodbye as it drives away, then sighs, dropping his hand to look at the door to his and Bucky’s apartment- he’s come home later than intended. He takes in a deep breath, and walks to the door, jamming the key into the lock, and turning the doorknob.

“Bucky?”

Their house is eerily silent, nothing making a sound save for the whirring heater in the far corner. Steve hears a distant crash from inside the bathroom and walks towards the door on the other side of the room.

He knocks gently, calling out Bucky’s name, “Hey, you in there, big guy?”

There’s another sound of shuffling from behind the door and Steve’s gut clenches with unease. Something isn’t right.

He wraps his hand around the doorknob, to open the door- it’s locked. “Is everything okay in there Buck?”

“S- Steve?” Bucky stammers softly from the other side.

“Yeah, it’s me-“

“Don’t come in,” he interrupts, shakily. “Please-,” he chokes out before cutting off.

Steve jiggles the doorknob pointlessly, knowing that it won’t do anything, but still hoping. He looks down at his thumbnail, a light bulb going off in his head. He sticks the blunt edge of his nail into the vertical lock, switching it up, and opens the door.

Bucky lays huddled over the toilet surrounded by blood and soaked paper towels. Bucky’s hands are stained crimson, gripping the sides of the toilet bowl as he vomits. He turns to look at Steve with wide, wet eyes with dry blood crusted around his cheeks that transitions into something wetter, the closer it is to his lips. Steve takes an alarmed step back, bringing his hands to cover his mouth in a numb stupor.

Bucky lets out a shaky, hysterical sob, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

“Bucky, what did you do?” Steve asks horrified.

Steve cautiously draws forward, sinking down to his knees and brought himself closer to Bucky’s hunched form, staining his own jeans red.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeats helplessly, wiping at his bloody mouth with the heels of his palms. “He just kept fucking barking and barking and - he just wouldn’t-”

Steve’s stomach flops with dry relief, at least this wasn’t a person, he thinks.

“Something is really, really wrong with me, Stevie,” Bucky blubbers. “I can’t stop- I couldn’t-,” he breaks off into a wet sob.

Steve brings a shaking hand up to rub Bucky’s back as he continues to bodily shake and look at his bloody hands in what Steve hopes is appallment. Steve sighs out thinly, staring at the shell of his best friend. His charming, do-gooder best friend.

Bucky looks at Steve, dragging him into his sweaty arms. He tucks Steve’s head underneath his chin, and holds him to his chest as they both tremble.

“I didn’t mean to,” Bucky mumbles into Steve’s hair.

“I know,” Steve lies.

Bucky sniffs wetly, “It feels like something’s eating away at me from the inside, Steve. I just get so- so angry, and I want to rip everything apart.”

Steve forces himself to remain pliant in Bucky’s touch but inwardly, he chokes on a cocktail of emotions- the most dominant one being fear. Bucky pulls back to look at Steve and something must show on his face because Bucky’s crumpled expression turns serious.

“Never you- _never_ you though, Steve,” he swears. “Til’ the end of the line, remember. Just you and me, always, I’d never hurt you.”

“I know,” Steve lies again. He’s not so sure of that anymore.

 

-

 

“Bullshit,” Sam deadpans.

“Gee, nice to know you take my word for it,” Steve replies wryly as he jerkily folds his arms across his chest.

“No, no I didn’t mean it like that,” Sam says shaking his head.

“Well how else could you mean it?”

“Steve, never mind,” Sam says enunciating each syllable in a sarcastic fashion, waving his hand in a ‘carry on’ motion. “So you got bit?”

He sighs looking down, “I’m changing like right now and puberty ain’t got nothing to do with it, before you start wisecracking. “

“What do you mean changing?” Sam asks raking a hand through his cropped short hair.

“My body’s changing, hair is growing everywhere and every which way, my canines are razor sharp, my ears are sensitive to sound, and I am so angry, not like irritated angry either, the more murderous kind,” he rambles, stumbling over his words. “And the only way I can see this going is a silver bullet to my head-“

“Steve,” Sam places a large hand on Steve’s shoulder reassuringly, “Calm down.”

“First of all, my truck did a pretty good job on that thing, so silver bullets aren’t a necessity,” he jokes lightly. “And second, there’s gotta’ be some kind of- I don’t know, a cure, right? Otherwise-”

Steve nods his head, catching his drift, “Yeah or there’d be a lot more of those things.”

“Right, good. Keep thinking positive, man,” he encourages.

Steve furrows his brow, thinking back to what Bucky said, _“It’s eating away at me from the inside,”_ he quotes silently. A virus, he realizes with a jerk.

“What did you say?”

“It’s some sort of infection, or virus,” Steve amends.

“Now that we can work with,” Sam grins widely, gesturing all around him. “A virus can be cured, and we’re in a greenhouse. Plenty of herbs in here.”

Steve smiles sheepishly, “Should we go about this by Hollywood rules first or?”

Sam laughs, punching him in the arm, “You’re funny, Rogers. Now go on, run off to your little guard dog.”

The irony of that statement was not lost on Steve, “Don’t call him that, he’s not my guard and definitely not my dog.”

“Come on, that was kind of funny,” Sam snickers, “I went by your school the other day to pick up a friend, I saw you and your buddy, was gonna say hi but we made eye contact and man-“ he whistles, “the look on that guy, you would of thought I stole his gal or something.”

Steve wrinkles his nose at the comparison and shakes his head, looking at Sam through squinted eyes, “He’s a nice fella, he’s just been a tad moody lately.”

“A tad? He’s a-“

“Hey,” Steve cuts in sharply. “Watch it.”

Sam raises his hands in defense, miming a comical impression of zipping his lips shut, “I shall say no more, but my previous statement still stands.”

 

-

 

It slowly becomes harder for Steve to meet with Sam once Bucky’s after school detention sentence runs out because Bucky takes up so much of Steve’s time. He never lets Steve stray far from his eye line, and is reluctant to even let him leave to actually go to the art store anymore without his company.

From what little Steve and Sam have been able to talk, they know that wolfsbane is not a viable choice for a cure due to its toxicity to an average human’s biology and body chemistry. Which is where it becomes tricky- Bucky isn’t exactly all average, or presumably all human anymore, or if he is, he probably won’t be soon enough. And Steve wasn’t going to take any chances on ‘maybes.’

Books of medication, plant remedies, and lunar cycles weigh down Steve’s backpack, which has given him many reproachful looks from Bucky as he checks them out from the library. He knows that Steve is looking for a cure and doesn’t discourage Steve’s fixation. He neither encourages it, but at least it’s progress from flat out denial, and unacknowledgement.

The weight of the bag causes a low ache to resound all up and down Steve’s back from past spinal conditions, and he has to practically beat Bucky off with a stick to get him to stop pestering Steve about carrying his bag for him.

Steve and Bucky walk out into the parking lot and Steve is about to make up an excuse to go meet up with Sam when Bucky stops walking abruptly. Steve’s step falters as Bucky’s warm presence disappears from beside him and cranes his neck to where Bucky stands looking stricken.

Steve follows his gaze and spots a familiar van and an even more familiar man next to said van.

“Hey, Steve!” Sam exclaims when his eyes land on him.

Sam jogs over to him, paying little attention to the other boy standing a few paces behind them, and little attention also to the inner turmoil Steve’s mind erupts into.

“Hey so I’ve been reading up on it and I think I found something-“

Bucky’s steely eyes shift to Steve, narrowing. Steve hunches his shoulders, ducking his head down only slightly in a abysmal show of humility.

Steve glances back at Bucky, taking in his tense stature and the way his upper lip curls up in a snarl to show off his too-sharp teeth.

Sam’s eyes flicker to Bucky as well and he holds out his hand in acknowledgment, “Sam Wilson,” he grins.

Bucky walks forward stiffly looking at the hand but doesn’t take it, instead he turns his dark, calculating eyes back on Steve.

“You told him.” It’s not a question but rather a statement. A solid fact.

“Excuse us for just one moment,” Steve tells Sam.

Steve bites his lip nervously, tugging on Bucky’s long sleeve.

Once they are a good ten feet away Steve finally speaks, “He knows stuff okay, he can help.”

“You blabbed to the first guy you saw,” Bucky spat, “He wants to take advantage of you!”

“You saw the van, he was there that night. He thinks I got bit,” Steve tries again. “If you’re so worried about him doing something funny, just come along this time.”

“What do you mean ‘this time’? You’ve gone with this guy more than once? Alone?” He stresses angrily. “What the fuck was going through your head?”

“I thought,” Steve grinds out, “that I was almost eighteen goddamn years old and could probably handle if some guy just wanted to get fresh. But he doesn’t, Sam is a nice guy, Buck, trust me.”

“You don’t make good choices, Steve,” Buck says angrily, throwing an arm forward in the air. “You are going to get yourself hurt!”

“You don’t trust my judgment?” Steve asks, offended

“You put yourself in terrible situations, that’s just what you do. I trust that you _think_ that he’s a good guy-“

“What is your damage? Steve interrupts angrily, throwing caution to the wind, and exclaiming back. “Come, don’t come, that’s fine by me, but I’m gonna go see Sam. He says he’s onto something.”

“Oh I bet he does,” Bucky says airily in a too-sweet tone, “Let’s go.”

Steve can feel his face beginning to become red and splotchy with barely contained rage, bubbling over inside of him. The only thing that would bring Steve immense pleasure in that moment would be to punch something. Hard. And the thing taking up most everything in his line of sight at that moment is Bucky’s infuriatingly, equally angry, mug.

He whips around, not looking to see if Bucky is following, and stalks over to Sam who moved to lean up against the side of his van. He pays no mind to the two people standing in his way, shouldering past them roughly, ignoring their grunts and annoyed cries.

“Bucky’s tagging along.”

Sam arches an eyebrow in wordless sarcasm. Steve stares back at him, in no mood to participate in chatty banter and Sam is a perceptive guy, so he doesn’t comment.

“Come on man, you can ride shotgun,” he says gesturing to his left, as he turns to walk to the driver’s seat.

Steve opens the door jerkily, slamming it shut with more force than intended, earning an exaggerated gasp from Sam.

“Don’t take your anger out on the car man, she hasn’t done anything wrong!”

Steve huffs under his breath and reaches behind him for the seatbelt, when the car door opens.

“Shove over, punk,” Bucky grumbles as he squishes himself into the Steve’s seat.

Steve glares at Bucky, “There’s plenty of room in the back seat, jerk.”

“I ain’t sitting in the fucking back seat.”

Steve and Bucky glare at each other in petulant, heated silence until Sam pipes up, “Kids, as much as I love watching the domestic drama, this van is a place of serenity.”

Steve and Bucky both turn toward Sam, sending withering looks, Bucky’s holding more depth than Steve’s. Bucky pushes himself down even more, twisting in an overzealous fashion, knocking Steve into the middle console.

“Jesus Christ,” Sam mutters under his breath, starting up the car.

The car ride is tense and only lasts five minutes, thank god. Sam smoothly parks next to the building and hops out, taking the lead towards the communal greenhouse.

Steve breathes in deep as Bucky gets up from where he sat, smushed, sending one last lingering scowl towards Bucky before following after Sam.

Bucky trails behind the other two, looking at the plants they pass with plain disinterest. He ghosts his fingers along them as he walks, smacking them and watches as they bounce back or tumble over. He hisses as his hand skids past something that stings. Steve looks back in mild concern, cutting off his conversation with Sam.

“Everything alright back there, Buck?”

Bucky raises his eyebrows theatrically, plastering a tight-lipped smile to his face, “Dandy.”

Steve sighs, turning back to Sam, “So what kind of plant was it you said again?”

“I didn’t, but it’s aconitum. Here’s the zinger though- it only grows in spring.”

Steve purses his lips, “Any chance we can get it in late fall?

“Doubtful.”

“This is bullshit,” Bucky pipes up loudly from behind them, moving forward.

“Bucky…” Steve warns.

He waves Steve off, sneering at Sam, “He doesn’t have the time to wait. You know he killed a dog?”

Alarm flashes across Steve’s face, “You killed a dog?” Sam asks.

“…Yes,” Steve answers, voice strained.

Sam and Bucky are inches apart, Bucky’s chest puffing up, as he gets in Sam’s face, “He’s just another mouth breather, Steve.”

“Buck, come one, back off,” Steve orders, grabbing Bucky’s bicep. He shakes Steve off roughly, ripping his arm from Steve’s grasp.

“Nah, Steve it’s okay,” Sam reassures him, “What’s your problem man?”

“My problem?” Bucky spits, looking Sam up and down, “What’s your problem? He’s seventeen! And you’re in college, what are you- twenty four?”

“Bucky!” Steve finally snaps, getting in between the two and pushing Bucky away. “Wait outside.”

Bucky glares down at Steve with an unreadable expression, a cross between complex loathing, and something softer. They war over which is more dominate in Bucky’s eyes, it’s almost as though something clicks. He grabs Steve’s arm leading him outside, despite his outspoken protest.

“Hey!” Sam exclaims, reaching to snatch at Bucky’s arm to reel him back.

Bucky whips around with a snarl, baring his too-sharp teeth, grip tightening on Steve’s arm to pull him behind his back.

“We should go,” Steve utters nervously, hoping Bucky is listening, “Sam, I’ll see you later, okay?”

 

-

 

“I don’t want you seeing him,” Bucky orders resolutely.

Steve looks up from his homework, “Well tough luck, we don’t always get what we want.”

Bucky lets out a low rumble from deep in his chest and Steve stares, baffled, “Did you just… growl at me?”

Bucky touches his chest, looking scandalized. Steve almost wants to laugh, he looks just as normal as he had three weeks before but with longer hair. And a stubble that just keeps on growing back no matter how many razors they use. Then the worry sets in again, if they do find a cure there’s no saying it will be permanent. Will he be like this for the rest of his life? Drugged, hairy, and murderous, what a delightful combination, Steve thinks. Till the end of the line, he reminds himself wryly.

“I’m gonna go on a grocery run tomorrow, I’ll get you more razors but try not to break this next batch, or were gonna have to move some stuff around on our budget,” Steve mentions nonchalantly. This would be a good excuse to go see Sam.

Bucky looks at Steve for a long time, not saying anything. The unspoken knowledge of Steve’s lie blankets the room in a pregnant silence. Steve tries not to tense up, as he finishes up the last few stoichiometry equations on his work page.

 

-

 

Sam sighs, pushing the heels of his palms into his eye sockets tiredly as he leans back in his chair. He winces at the high pitched squeak the rusted metal releases as more weight is added. The clock reads 1am and everyone has since left the college campus, ‘the bright side of being a part time janitor,’ Sam thinks. ‘Keys and free roam at night,’

He sighs again, placing his hands on either side of his herbal textbook. Scanning down the page one last time, he finds nothing of real substance. He turns to the next page and pauses. Sam’s pointer finger traces the lines to a faded image, thinking.

‘Monk’s hood, otherwise referred to as Aconitum, used to hunt whales and bears in prehistoric times, and more recently in modern folk lore to ward off evil spirits and those who posses a lycanthropy infection, to help delay symptoms-‘ he cuts off there, focusing back on the photo. Sam already read all of this in every other herbalist textbook he could get his hands on.

“Wait a fucking minute,” he mutters to himself.

Sam cranes his head back, studying the rows of potted plants until his eyes catch on the same dull violet blooms that his faded textbook depicts.

He slams the book shut with breathy laugh, “Yes!”

Sam instinctively reaches his hand down to his hip where his phone lies to tell Steve when he remembers that Steve apparently doesn’t have a phone. He throws his head back in annoyance. What kid his age doesn’t have a phone? He fumes for a moment more before reverting back to excitement again.

What would be the fastest way to get it into someone’s system? It’s a diminutive toxin so preferably a no-go on smoke. It could probably be eaten but the effects wouldn’t develop as quick. That leaves only way to be one hundred percent sure it works, Sam concludes. He’d have to inject it.

 

-

 

Steve walks home a little straighter today, swinging the plastic bags in his hands with the in tune walking movements of his arms. He switches them over to his left arm, digging around in his pocket for his house keys.

He pushes it into the lock, with enthusiasm and slams the door open, “Buck, I got some great news-“

Steve pauses, all the lights are out and the overpowering scent of copper and bleach assaulting his nose. He pinches his nostrils and covers his mouth to keep from inhaling too much of the acrid stench while the beginnings of a headache starts to form behind his eyes. Bucky probably had a manic episode, it would not be the most out of character thing he’s done so far.

Steve walks through the front door, shutting it behind him and dropping his backpack and the groceries next to the coat closet just next to the entrance.

“Bucky?”

Steve’s eyes adjust to the dark, as he begins to feel along the wall for the light switch. Once he finds it, he turns it upwards letting light flood the room. Bucky sits, huddled on the kitchen floor scrubbing hard at the juncture where the tile cuts off into carpet.

“Hey, did you hear me? I got something to tell you,” Steve grouches.

There is a long silence, Bucky doesn’t respond.

Steve stalks forward, dread beginning to bloom in his chest and stomach, “Is everything alright?”

He grabs Bucky’s shoulder and turns him around to face him.

“You met with him,” his voice rings out lowly, drenching the room in a more uncomfortable silence than before.

Bucky angles his face down towards his hand, making a show of inhaling deeply, his eyes darting up to meet his, glinting dangerously in the dingy, yellow light of their home, “I smell him on you.”

Goosebumps erupt along the back of Steve’s neck as a chill crawls up Steve’s spine, he continues to meet Bucky’s stare.

Bucky goes on, “You saw him again anyway. After I told you not to.”

“Buck…” Steve trails off, words evading him. His eyes trail down to the floor, and bulge at the orange tint.

“Is that?”

Bucky’s squints up at him, he doesn’t answer.

“Rumlow came ‘round looking for you,” he says instead.

“What does that have to do with-,” he starts.

Looking closer, peeking out just behind the kitchen counter, he sees dark brunet hair and the tip of a forehead marred with a nasty gash.

Steve staggers forward, towards the body. Steve’s fingers tremble, trailing over Rumlow’s body, unsure of what to do. He swallows thickly, finally settling on pressing two shaky fingers to the other boy’s neck checking for a pulse. His skin is chilled and Steve can’t feel a single thump. Steve yanks his hand back, running his fingers through his hair. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

“There’s-” Steve’s voice cracks. “I don’t-“

Bucky has moved to crouch next to him and his presence hovering near Steve’s side is simultaneously terrifying and comforting in the most morbid way possible.

“No one would think it was us,” Bucky murmurs, “We help old ladies cross the street, we hold doors open for dames, we-,“ he trails off.

“Nobody would suspect a thing, we’re just Steve and Bucky to everyone else, a couple of ordinary rough n’ tumble kids you’d find walking down the street.”

Steve doesn’t speak for a long moment. Bucky doesn’t either, his sharp eyes trained on Steve.

“Are you mad at me?” Bucky asks.

“You can’t go out anymore,” Steve mutters, looking up at him. “You’re too dangerous.”

Bucky’s eyes flash, “Like hell I’m-“

“Like hell, you’re gonna do this to someone else,” Steve interrupts.

“Fuck, this isn’t a dog, Bucky. This is a person, he had friends, a family, goals, dreams,” he continues, voice steadily rising in pitch.

Steve struggles to find the correct words, “You can’t just- Shit!”

He fists his hands in his hair, pulling, his insides clenching and unclenching with nausea and stress.

“We could burn him in the fireplace. Spread the ashes in the forest and skip town.” Bucky says softly. “We’ve been saving up since we were kids, we’re bound to have maybe over five thousand dollars in that pillow case of yours. That’s enough to start over some place else.” Even softer, he says, “I could bite you. Then we’d be really be in this together.”

Steve jolts, jerkily flinching himself away, and standing up to back away. He manages a few steps but slips on the bleach laden floor, falling onto his back. He grunts as motion sickness hits him belatedly, opening his eyes in time to watch Bucky prowl forwards.

Bucky crawls up Steve’s body until his face hovers overhead. His broad shoulders blocked the light from behind him, casting a shadow over Steve and outlining his coiled form in ethereal light, making the rigid edges of his shoulders appear smoother, yet still intimidating. Bucky holds himself in a silent coiled way of that akin to the way a predator does when hunting for prey. This was the first that Steve has ever seen of this new expression, not even with the bullies he used to rough up that touched Steve.

Steve resists the urge to look away, continuing to stare straight on into Bucky’s dangerous, hopeful eyes.

“Just one bite, Steve, and we could be a pack. It would be just like before, except it would _mean_ something now.”

“You’re cracked,” Steve whispers back, terrified.

Like a switch, Bucky’s eyes go dark. His large hand comes up and splays itself across Steve’s throat, wrapping it all the way around until his thumb and middle finger touched. Steve swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing against the skin of Bucky’s hand. He breathes shallowly, doing nothing to move away from Bucky’s grip. With one flick of the wrist his neck could be broken, or with more pressure added, his windpipe could be crushed.

Bucky squeezes his neck slightly, drawing Steve out of his thoughts.

“We found the stuff to make that cure we talked about the other day. Y-you could be fixed,” Steve tells him.

“What if I don’t want it. The cure.” Bucky growls. “I like how I am now.”

For a moment a siren goes off in Steve’s head and his brain flashes in warning- danger, danger, danger, it repeated. He ignores it, pushing the feeling down and bringing himself to sit up on his elbows. He and Bucky are chest to chest now, and he can feel the other’s warm body breathing over his. Steve forces his breathing to remain evenly paced, not giving into any of his fear.

Finding his voice again, Steve opens his mouth this time, sure of what to say, “You should know by now that I don’t just not do something because someone says so.”

The room stills. One moment the world is in clear view, then the next, everything fades to black as Bucky lifts him up by the neck and slams his head down onto the ground in one decisive movement.

 

-

 

He wakes up in the bathroom.

It takes a moment for Steve to connect the dots in his head. He quickly shoots up from his position on the floor, dislodging a blanket draped over his shoulders. He winces slightly at the sharp pain on the crown of his head. He probes the sore flesh with his fingers, feeling a large knot that had formed.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see a bottle of water and a sandwich on a paper plate.

A chill works its way down Steve’s spine. He stands and puts his hand on the doorknob, turning slowly, and pushing. Nothing happens. Steve frantically jiggles at the doorknob- still nothing. He’s blocked in.

Steve forms a fist, pounding on the door as hard as he can, “Bucky! Let me out,” he yells.

Steve hits at the door until his hand is bruised and sore. No one answers. He breathes out shakily, putting his back to the door and sliding down until he’s sitting on the cool linoleum flooring.

He picks at the edges where the floor meets wall with stares disinterestedly at the floor. Looks like he might be here a while.

 

-

 

The opening of the door is so soft that Steve almost doesn’t hear it. His eyes open with a sigh. He migrated over to the other side of the bathroom over the course of a few hours. Steve sits cross legged on the opposite wall next to the toilet.

Bucky skulks in and shuts the door behind him, crouching down to be eye level with Steve. In his hands, he holds Steve’s sketchbook. He sees Steve looking and wordlessly offers it up to him. Steve doesn’t take it.

He flickers his steely eyes up to meet Bucky’s. After sitting in isolation for hours, his gut wrenching anxiety transitioned into fearless ire.

Bucky sets the book down to the side and opens his mouth to speak.

“I’m gonna make everything better, okay,” Bucky says assuredly. “I need to keep you here, where you’re safe, and then we’ll go and start over.”

“I don’t need you to _protect_ me,” Steve spits out the word like a curse. “I don’t need you to ‘make everything better.’ Right now the only danger to me is you.”

Bucky doesn’t reply, but his jaw ticks ever so slightly, betraying just how angry Bucky is as well.

He glances at the uneaten sandwich and full water bottle, before leaving and slamming the door behind him.

“God damn you,” Steve mumbles to himself tiredly.

Steve can hear the front door opening and closing distantly, he’s so tired of being worried.

 

-

 

Steve has taken up counting the seconds, but that just seems to make time go slower. The highest he counted to was eighteen thousand nine hundred sixty five, which he rounded up to be somewhere around five hours.

Eventually he gives into temptation and draws in his sketchbook that Bucky left him. He’s thankful for the thought.

The hunger sets in after a while. He eats slowly, pacing himself, to make the sandwich last. Bucky hasn’t been in the house for a long time as far as he can tell. The front door hasn’t opened or closed from what he could hear.

Sleep doesn’t come easily. He tosses and turns on the uncomfortably hard floor with only a cloth blanket. It’s far too cold and hard to be comfy. Steve only dozes off once while sitting up against the wall straining to listen for any outside noises. He wonders how long it has been. There are no windows, so there is no real way to tell.

Steve misses Bucky.

 

-

 

Finally there is the sound of shuffling on the other side of the door. Steve’s fingers ache to touch someone- he misses human contact. The brush of fingers of the attendant at a cash register checkout, the butting of shoulders against people in the hallway, or being in the comforting embrace of his best friend.

“Bucky?” He calls out.

“Steve?” A voice calls out- not Bucky’s.

“ _Sam_ ,” Steve exclaims breathlessly. “How did you?”

“Picked the lock,” he says through the door, “You’ve been gone for two days.”

“Look it’s mighty great talking to you through the door, but if you could, I don’t know, get me out of the bathroom? That would be real swell.”

“Roger that,” Sam grunts.

Steve rises, swaying slightly in his eagerness to leave the room. Steve lets out a relieved huff, not hesitating to hug Sam the instant the door opened. Sam let out a startled laugh and hugged him back. Steve relishes in the moment for a while longer before coming back to himself.

“So two days?” He asks.

“Two days,” Sam nods.

After an instant Sam speaks again, pulling something out of his pocket, “Look this is- we aren’t entirely sure about what this stuff really does, or if it will really work on him. All we have is a hunch. I just want you to be prepared for the worst case scenario, he may not make it tonight.”

Steve meets Sam’s eyes, “How did you know?”

Sam smiles, “Come on, Steve, you don’t exactly have the best poker face.”

He hands Steve the syringe, “Now let’s go find your boy.”

“He’s already here,” Bucky's voice rings out from behind them.

Sam and Steve whip around coming face to face with Bucky. The door was left open, the full moon shining menacingly behind his outlined form. Steve jerks back in surprise fumbling with the syringe in his hands, dropping it to the ground. Bucky steps on it, shattering it into pieces as an arm shoots out to grip Sam by the throat, lifting him up in the air.

“Bucky, stop!” Steve exclaims frantically, grabbing at his bicep and pulling.

Sam’s face begins to turn to a faint shade of blue and Bucky grips his throat so tight that no air can make its way past Sam’s lips. The tendons in Bucky’s hand flex tighter for a split second, then blood regurgitates from Sam’s mouth and rains down, splattering messily over Steve and Bucky’s faces. Bucky hums, letting go of Sam’s neck. He falls lifelessly to the ground.

Steve stares agape at Sam’s body, his crushed esophagus, misshapen and discolored. He brings his fingers to his mouth, feeling the wet blood there. Steve takes his hand away to stare at it.

Bucky watches Steve with hungry eyes, tracing his form in the yellow light of their home. The elegant contours of his face smeared with red. Steve always had looked good in red, Bucky thought.

Without thinking, Bucky reels Steve in, not paying any mind to his questions or denial.

The kiss was simultaneously hot and chilling. It was more teeth than lips, and would have been sweet if not for the blood that laced Bucky’s spit as his mouth worked to pry Steve’s open.

Bucky walks them backwards, placing Steve’s feet on Bucky’s shoes until they are in the kitchen pressed against the counter.

His teeth sunk down onto Steve’s bottom lip, slowly increasing in pressure to the point where it hurt. Realizing what he was doing, Steve tore away before he could draw blood and began thrashing in all directions to worm his way out from Bucky’s grasp.

His hands gripped at Bucky’s shoulders pushing with all his might but to no avail, his grip too strong. It began to tighten, no longer firm pressure, but constricting vice. Was he going to do the same thing to Steve as he did to Sam?

“Ouch! Bucky, you’re hurting me,” Steve hisses out.

Bucky’s hold on Steve loosens, only to completely push him away another second later.

Steve stumbles onto his butt, grunting at the impact on the icy tile floor. He watches in confusion as Bucky’s hand flies to his chest with an alarmed look.

A pained groan erupts from Bucky’s chest as he crumples in on himself.

Bucky's spine ripples underneath his skin, elongating, with an orchestra of cracking bones singing in the dim light, acting as Steve's only anchor to reality. He watches in paralytic horror as Bucky groans and pounds his fist on the floor again, shattering the blood slick tile.

The faint, flickering lights overhead cast long shadows across the room, making everything that much more eerie. Steve's legs were numb with shock, not responding to his attempts to move.

From his place on the floor, Steve could see Bucky's sharp, lengthened canines glinting with every pained curl of his upper lip. Foreboding, an unintentional warning. An innate, primal instinct from within him screamed to run. Make yourself small and run. The guy in front of you is a predator.

Steve never was one to walk away from something that was in his best interest. Even though he most definitely should.

Bucky’s groans turn into something deeper, more animalistic. Inhuman. He growls. When he next opens his eyes, they shine, ringed with bright gold that slowly devours his sclera, bleeding into his usual dark blue until it meets pupil.

Dark brown hair sprouts in hurried patches, growing longer by the second until it covers almost every square inch yet still expanding outwards. It is just then that Steve notices that it’s not only the hair that is growing, Bucky’s ribs seem to be expanding.

His clothes begin to rip and Bucky brings a clawed hand up to tear the remains away until he is naked. Steve’s eyes lock onto a furry tail.

With one last agonized howl, Bucky’s mouth turns into a wolfish snarl, his nose contorting into something larger, longer- a snout.

The howl ends but it still echoes throughout the room. There is a pregnant pause and Steve stares at the wolf wide eyed. The wolf- Bucky- Steve reminds himself, pants, staring back with golden, voracious eyes.

He stands on four legs looming over Steve’s still sitting form. He has a hunch that even if he were standing, the wolf- Bucky- would probably still tower over him.

They both seem to move simultaneously, Steve darting towards the front door, and Bucky pouncing forward to catch Steve.

Steve was fast, but not fast enough. His fingers barely graze the doorknob before the wolf is on him and the door is slammed shut, locking Steve in with the wolf. He grunts under the weight of the wolf, one massive paw resting on the center of his back, pressing him face down to the floor. He struggles but to no avail, more pressure is added to his back until he is gasping shallowly for air.

A wet nose ghosts across the length of Steve’s arm, settling just above his wrist. Steve’s breathing quickens, he thrashes his arm in erratic, jerky motions but the wolf places his other paw on the juncture below Steve’s elbow, pinning it down.

“No, no, no-,” Steve denies frantically. “Bucky!”

The wolf- Bucky- closes his mouth on Steve’s arm and bites down, teeth catching, and breaking skin. Steve bumps his forehead against the floor, barely holding back a pained wail. It was as though liquefied fire was poured into his bloodstream from the bite, crawling up through his veins, and devouring every inch of him until all his nerve endings sang.

Bucky dropped his mangled arm from his jaws just as a single drops from Steve’s eye, to the floor.

The hurt got worse before it got better. The fire burned so hot, it almost seemed like ice. He forgets to breath, but the aching in his lungs is nothing compared to everything else.

Steve doesn’t know how much time passes. How much time he spent on the floor of their wrecked kitchen, their wrecked apartment, staring at nothing. It could be hours, minutes, seconds, Steve’s not sure. He lacks the ability to form coherent thought, everything just a swirling mass of confusing emotion. He tries to recall how to speak, jumbled words rising in his throat that his vocal chords can’t carry out, only whimpers. His brain can’t seem to remember how to go through the motions to translate the command to his body. The pain begins leaking out from where it came, leaving only a dull ache as it passes.

His eyes fluctuate between a keen accuracy and unfocussed mess, he turns his head to the left, blearily squinting at the bite mark on his lower arm. It’s completely healed over. Bile rises in the back of Steve’s throat.

His eyes fluctuate between a keen accuracy and unfocussed mess, he turns his head to the left, blearily squinting at the bite mark on his lower arm. It’s completely healed over. Bile rises in the back of Steve’s throat.

He swallows thickly, looking away to instead stare at nothing, but rather finds his bag that he dropped by the door from days before. A thick textbook peeks out of the unzipped seam and a bleary plan forms. Well less plan, more laser focus on a singular task that is powerful enough to emerge itself as more prominent than the pain Steve experiences.

The wolf steps off of Steve’s arms to sniff around the room, and it’s as though Steve can finally breathe for once in his life. He takes a deep breath, his lungs no longer suffering from the perpetual crippling sensation of asthma.

Dazedly, he reaches for the textbook, taking it in his hands without registering the movement.

Crawling soundlessly forward, Steve raises the textbook above his head, ignoring his voice of wisdom screaming at him to stop. The wolf doesn't turn around when Steve slams down the book right in between it's ears. He swings with all his might, and with force he didn't know he had or just attained the moment he was infected. There is an almost inaudible crack and the wolf sways on it's feet for a long moment before toppling to the ground.

Steve looks at the book but it is as though he doesn't actually see it. He still holds it in a white knuckle grip that he can't bring himself to relinquish and for an instant, he is watching the scene from above. Emotion eludes him until the moment where he seems to come back to himself.

Panicked, Steve lets the textbook slip from his grasp, lunging towards the wolf's neck feeling for a pulse. His fingers tremble when they can't locate a steady rhythm and move frantically under Bucky's nose- no breath.

Steve wrenches himself away, wide eyed, inhaling shallowly through his nose. Without preamble, he stands and grabs his bag, stuffing in stray clothes he finds on the floor and digging out cash in all of their- his- apartment's hidden nooks and crannies, then lastly his pillowcase where the bulk of his cash is. Steve looks to Sam, stomach knotting with guilt and nausea. The outline of his keys contrast starkly against the pocket on his thigh, and Steve doesn't let himself think about how he is stealing a dead man's car.

He needs to get away from the city and into the middle of nowhere, some place where he can't hurt anyone. He saw what happened to Bucky. He was...

Steve is alone now. He throws his bag into the passenger seat, sticking Sam's keys into the ignition, pointedly not looking back as he drives away.


	2. i'm not gonna die alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The End!

Bucky is dead. Steve almost can’t comprehend the weight of that statement. Every passing day is like a dream. He drives and drives, until Sam’s car runs out of gas, he fills it, keeps driving, and then anxiety set in. What if someone would come looking for him? He ditches the car and hops on to the closest bus, riding until he’s the last person on board.  


An endless movie plays in Steve’s head- Sam’s death, the kiss, the wolf, the bite, Bucky’s wolf form crumpled and breathless on the ground.  
Bucky is dead. Bucky is dead. Bucky is dead.  


Being without Bucky is like slowly starving yourself. It starts as a shallow ache, then graduates into an insatiable need that devours every fiber of his being. The anguish and longing is so unbearable that Steve can’t fathom anything worse.  


Until the urges start.  


Stemming from the grief, came a foreign lascivious hunger that Steve at first couldn’t identify. It lied just underneath conscious thought until it clawed its way into awareness.  


Steve swallows and bites his lip when people brush past him. Each person has a smell that he can’t help but inhale. One had carried the scent that emanated from his mother’s old apple pie recipe he used to eat as a child.  


His mouth had watered and he couldn’t help but let his eyes track the young man as he walked around the drug store. Something dark and insidious whispered into his ear to lure the man away but Steve had instead jolted so hard from the idea that he knocked over one of the shelves filled with assorted junk foods.  


He had apologized and helped clean up his mess, despite the workers insistence that it was okay, keeping his hands busy helped distract him from the fact that the delicious smelling man had left.

 

-

 

Steve is drawn out from his thoughts by a strong hand that grabs his shoulder, shaking him hard enough to upset his balance.  


“Kid this is the last time I’m saying this. It’s the last stop.”  


Steve looks at the man blankly, he blinks a few times as the words register and nods once, slinging his bag over one shoulder.

Now, he currently stands at the bus pit stop in front of a gas station that is in desperate need of a new paint job. The white paint along the sides of the building is stained yellow with what smells like piss and stale alcohol which makes Steve cringe at the overpowering stench.  


The logo has a cute cartoon tiger with a thumbs up next to it, advertising for a car wash discount. Steve’s hands itch to draw the scene before him in a painstakingly familiar sensation. His fingers twitch.  


Bucky used to call it creativity withdrawals when he got like this. He used to make fun of him for it when he always eventually went through all the paper in the house and one time, saved up enough money to buy Steve a nice journal for his birthday.  


Behind the gas station there was a rustle, followed by a hushed voice and a girl’s frantic yell. Steve’s eyes narrow, his yearning to draw forgotten, and he stalks forward silently to the back of the store.  


He peeks around a corner to see a young blonde woman hitting a man across the mouth with a vicious right hook, hard enough to cause pain but not enough to cripple him for long. As Steve looked on, something grew within him, there was a greed inside of him that transcended hunger. The greed mingled with fury to create a perfect cluster of bloodlust. He wanted to do more than incapacitate that man. He wanted to kill him and that was more scary than any fear he had experienced in the last two months.  


“Hey!” Steve yells, yanking the man away with a surprising amount of newfound strength, “What’s going on back here?”  


As predicted the man recovered quickly, aiming a hit towards Steve. He quickly dodges, spinning to kick him hard enough to send him spiraling onto the ground. The other man’s head hits the the pavement with a loud smack, and sending him into a daze. For a moment, Steve’s eyes glint with intent and he is about to move forward but the blonde’s voice rings out from behind him.  


“Wow you’re pretty strong for a little guy,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, sergeant slaughter.”  
Steve lets himself be dragged into the store, leaving the man behind as his anger slowly fades, but the hunger still like an unbearable itching sensation just underneath his skin.  


“Thanks for that by the way, the name’s Sharon, but I could have handled myself,” the blonde speaks up again.  


“Yeah no problem-,“ Steve replies but is interrupted when Sharon yells out loudly into the small store.

“Aunt Peggy!”  


Steve startles slightly, looking around the small store. It’s small, but large enough to hold just about everything that you could possibly need in the event of civilization collapse in an apocalyptic horror movie.  


“Aunt Peggy,” Sharon calls again, even louder than before.  


This time there is an answer, an old lady opens a door that leads to stairs, looking on in disapproval.  


“Really Sharon, there’s a customer here, you shouldn’t yell,” she chastises.  


Sharon rolls her eyes, “That creep from earlier came back and- hey what’s your name?” She cuts off, turning to ask Steve.  


“Steve,” he offers, watching the two.  


“Steve here, helped me out,” Sharon continues.

Peggy’s eyes flicker over to Steve, staring for a long moment, gaze sharp and observant, before smoothing out into a beautiful smile.

Steve struggles with what to say in response, unsure of whether or not a handshake would be seen as too formal. A hug would sure as hell be to chummy for someone he just met.

Instead he blurts, “Your niece has a wonderful right hook ma’am.”

Inwardly, he cringes at himself, there are so many other things that Steve could have said to this nice old woman. He must have said something right though because Sharon’s whole face brightens and Peggy’s grin stretches even wider.

”Thank you young man, I taught her everything I know,” Peggy chuckles, looking at Sharon fondly.

After a momentary pause, she speaks again, “If you don’t mind me prying, Steve, what are you doing out at this time of night? You can’t be any older than nineteen.”

“Ah, well, this was the last stop on the bus. I figured, I’d just sleep on the bench tonight and wait for the next ride,” Steve explains nervously.

Sharon’s face twists with distaste, as she shakes her head at her aunt Peggy, “He can’t do that, there are muggers out there.”

“It’s okay, really, I’ve done this before,” Steve reassures her.

The furrow in between Peggy’s brow at his words deepens when he spoke again, “This is simply unacceptable. You have helped us, so we shall return the favor. Stay here tonight.”

Steve opens his mouth to protest but this time when Peggy speaks, her whole stature is one of dominance and authority, not leaving any room for protest, “You are staying here and that is final young man.”

Steve bites his lip, feeling properly reprimanded and swallows a sarcastic jibe as Sharon laughs at his chastised expression.

And that’s how Steve ends up lying on a strangers couch. He sits and stares up at the ceiling for a long time. Every now and again he turns his head and glances at the bright red numbers reading the time on the oven in the other room. It’s four in the morning and he can’t sleep.

The smells are too overbearing, the two women just a single door away smell of vanilla and strawberries respectively and their dwelling reeking of floral perfumes and saccharine soaps. It makes Steve’s mouth water so intensively that he instead tries to not breath through his nose. It proves difficult, the cool air irritating his sensitive canines. He tries just not breathing altogether, counting the seconds until he silently gasps for more air, swallowing it down greedily. The farthest he can get is three minutes before he sees stars.

His gums pulse painfully, like almost everything else, and a coppery taste fills his mouth, Steve swallows thickly. Blood. He slams his mouth shut with a click, gritting his teeth to keep from groaning. Surrounding scents become even more overpowering to the point where it seems as though the walls begin closing in on him.

Steve stuffs his face into a couch pillow, gripping it tightly to his chest but it seldom helps. Sweat pools on his forehead, dripping down his nose and staining the pillow he has smushed against him and he pushes it away after another moment.

He had gripped it too tightly. The fabric underneath his fingers tore and unraveled soundlessly beneath his hold. His hands shake uncontrollably but not from fear or from wishing he had a pencil.

Steve swallows the blood flooding his mouth again, sitting up. Two solid masses land on his tongue and he is met with sudden relief. Steve parts his lips, pushing the objects forward with his tongue to grip them between his teeth and uses his thumb and forefinger to grab one. 

Bringing it in close, the tooth glints in the low light filtering through the window a few feet away. Shocked, Steve drops it to the ground with a silent clatter. Steve spits the other tooth out into one hand and uses his free hand to probe at his gums but instead comes into contact with a two razor sharp canines.

Steve inhales deeply, regretting it immediately as the tarty smells floods his senses again. He reaches down and pockets the two teeth, then cups his hands against his face.

Willing the stinging in his eyes to go away, Steve scrubs his face and rakes his hands through his hair. He leaves in under two minutes, grabbing his backpack and leaving a sticky note on Sharon and Peggy’s fridge, thanking them for their hospitality.

 

-

 

Steve is too paranoid to take the bus anymore, the scents are too unbearable to sit around all day and he’s too afraid of hurting someone. He instead walks on the side of the highway in no particular direction, every so often glancing up at the moon with a shifty expression. Only a few weeks till the full moon, Steve starts to think he should travel to someplace desolate with lots of forest- like Montana or something.

He hasn’t stopped to look where he is for two days, and Steve doesn’t remember the last time he slept, too high strung to keep his eyes closed for very long. His skin no longer feels like it fits properly, always too tight and achieving such a deep itch that could only be satiated from reaching deep inside from underneath his flesh.

All of his buzzing energy reminds him of the feeling he had when he drank too much coffee, but this sensation never ebbs only dulling slightly for pain to take place as the new main physical nuisance.

Steve is pretty sure he smells disgusting. It has been weeks since he last showered and he hasn’t looked in a mirror for probably twice as long. Finally he breaks down, when his feet bleed, and the soles of his shoes are worn so thin that the beginnings of holes are starting to form. His legs give out from underneath him and Steve takes a moment to sit and breath.

The air is bitter and wet snow starts to float down like rain but with less intensity. There are no cars and Steve is so utterly, unbearably alone.

He grips his wrists tightly to his chest and yanks the sleeve of his jacket back harshly to look at the scar for the first time since the night it was given. The bite acts as an emblem, branding Steve as Bucky’s and he looks down on it with a hateful, dark, longing. Bucky and Steve, together forever, till the end of the line. Except not really. Bucky was gone and he was stuck alone, living on as a fucking monster.

Taking one last deep breath, Steve steels himself in preparation for more travel. He will rest at the nearest motel and decide where he will go from there.

Dragging himself forward into the unknown, Steve continues to walk until the lights of a town are able to be seen in the faint glow of sunrise. The streets are empty and a thin layer of fog coats everything in sight, bringing back the desolate feeling that Steve is quickly becoming familiar with. He wades further into the town. There’s bound to be a motel around here somewhere, Steve thinks to himself.

A hand reaches out from the dark of an alleyway, dragging Steve sideways and slamming him into the wall of the brick building behind him.

His ears ring from the force of the bump to the back of his head and savage hope assaults his chest in a flurry of emotion, but quickly disintegrates again when the scent of cigarettes and gravel fills his nose. A gun presses into his lower abdomen and hot, disgusting breath is blown into his face, “Give me your bag, and your shoes, then I’ll let you go.”

Beneath the rising anger, logic points out a select few things. Firstly, the gun doesn’t smell like how a gun should smell; plastic and lacking any scent of oil. Secondly, the man before him is weaker.

Steve kicks the man pressing against him in between the legs, using his momentary lapse in guard to push him away forcefully.

His head cracks audibly against the brick wall on the opposite side, and he falls motionless to the ground. It was almost the same sound that came when Steve killed Bucky except it wasn’t as wet sounding.

Blood begins to leak from the wound on the mugger’s head, and Steve’s mouth waters uncontrollably.

Everything is suddenly too much to bear.

Steve runs, managing to find a dingy motel on the outskirts of the town and just manages to throw his bag on the floor before breaking down.

 

-

 

The sounds are loud and come from every which direction, penetrating through the walls and barraging Steve’s ears with a kaleidoscope of conflicting clamor and pandemonium.

He can hear the creak in the doors of opening motel rooms, the loud pounding of steps from every room above, beside, and below, his room, and the sound of two people coupling several rooms away.

It all makes Steve’s head sing with chaos, rendering him unable to form a coherent string of consciousness. He grips his ears tight enough to make them bleed but they heal over quickly, only to be cut open again when Steve squeezes twice as hard.

His attempts to block out the noises are futile and not helping whatsoever. He tries stuffing his head under his pillow instead, helping only minimally more than his previous method.

Steve grits his teeth painfully, breathing in shallowly, trying to refocus on one specific thing to hear instead of letting them all flood his senses but it proves harder than expected. The sounds all flood together and mingle in an unintelligible blob of discordant tones, varying rhythms, and vibrations filling up the air around him.

There’s a loud pounding at Steve’s door that is loud enough to be heard past the sounds of the street and the motel.

Steve staggers to his feet with difficulty, his travel taking its toll on his labored muscles, stumbling to the door. He’s breathing heavily by the time he reaches the door, leaning an arm on the doorframe to keep himself balanced.

He brings a shaking hand up to undo the chain, and flicks the lock, opening the door with a grunt and freezes. Their eyes lock and for a moment, time slows down around them. Everything that isn’t Steve and Bucky is nonexistent, fading to blurred oblivion and background noise.

There, standing right in front of him, is Bucky. Alive and breathing, unlike how Steve last saw, and promptly left, him as. Confusion bubbles to the surface but is drowned out by a flood of different conflicting emotions. Steve savagely thirsts for his touch, missing so much their shared intimacy in their final moments.

They meet halfway, limbs tangling together in a bodily mess as Bucky hefts Steve up into his arms in a tight embrace. Steve burrows his face in the crook of Bucky’s neck inhaling deeply and twining his legs around Bucky’s middle, grasping tightly and unwilling to let go. The both of them stink of sweat and the grime of travel, but neither of which can bring themselves to care.

All of their anger, aggression, and frustration was channeled into a singular, more manageable, longing that could only be quenched by their continued physical contact. Touching was as simple and imperative as breathing.

The door was slammed shut in a flurry of movement as Bucky kicked it shut with one foot, then moved towards the small unfoldable motel bed, carrying Steve as though he were as light as a feather.

They tumble down together breathing each other in, ignoring the acrid scent of used motel. Steve, still averse to relinquishing his grip is shielded from the outside by Bucky’s body crushed solidly against him.

Bucky murmurs into Steve’s ear frantic little violent nothings with a melody and cadence of that akin to poetry. A warped, blood tainted serenade just for the two of them to hear. Promises that the two of them used to hear used in corny romance movies as children, desperate pleas to never let go, and to stay together forever in every different reorganized form of vernacular that Bucky possessed in his vocabulary. They stayed like that grinding against each other in small circular movements, breathing heavily against one another, becoming sticky with sweat.

Slowly, Bucky begins to peel off Steve’s layers of clothing. He arches his back to accommodate the movement, reluctant to garner any amount of distance no matter how small or large. Bucky held a similar opposition as well, growling with frustration as discarding the garments that stood as a barrier between their skin to touch.

They both sigh in relief as their chests touch, their sweat slick skin sliding together in an almost ticklish fashion. Bucky’s thick stubble scratches at Steve’s face when he rubs his cheek against Steve’s affectionately leaving burns in its wake but Steve is too high on sensation to really be hurt.

Bucky thrusts down dragging himself deliciously across Steve in a repetitive motion until their heat came to a peak. Steve breathes shallowly, scratching down Bucky’s back, trying to bring him closer than what is logically possible. As their sensitivity became too overbearing, Bucky sinks his teeth down onto the curve of Steve’s shoulder with a snarl.

Respite finally hits them both at the same time, engulfing them in a cloud of relief and lethargy. Bucky lays down heavily on top of Steve, his full weight resting atop of him. Steve grunts but makes no other sound of protest.

Foggy thoughts drift past inside Steve’s brain evading translation in his tired state like ships through a calm sea. One though, is prominent enough for Steve to voice. He waits until he can phrase it right.

“Bucky?” He wonders aloud, later when the air was cool, but their bodies still hot, sticky, and pressed close.

“Yes?” Bucky answers quietly.

“What was it like?” Steve asked. “Killing Sam.”

“…It was... easy,” Bucky says, taking a moment to reply, trying to find the words that felt right. “I just squeezed and then he was gone.

I didn’t feel anything,” he continues. “Just satisfaction. Like I do right now.”

“I know what you mean,” Steve says, not lying this time.

“I know what you mean,” he says again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So glad I finally got this done, please feel free to come chat if you have any lingering questions!

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is [sansaasnark](http://sansaasnark.tumblr.com) and please feel free to come chat with me! Thanks for reading.


End file.
